


Two Doomed Ships that Pass in Storm

by abbysojee



Series: Golden Sand [3]
Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers, The Spies are Foreverse
Genre: M/M, Spy puns, as usual, literature references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 09:01:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19866991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbysojee/pseuds/abbysojee
Summary: It starts as a hand job in Berlin, and, perhaps without either of them noticing, progresses to something more.





	1. The Hands of Lust

It starts as nothing more than a hand job in a back alley East Berlin street. Owen is pleased that he read the signals right, else this would be awkward. Curt is anything but awkward, pitched against a brick wall, gasping. His breath fans out in the air as he laughs, says, “you’re a crazy bastard, Carvour.”

“I wasn’t the one who nearly got us killed.” It’s an all-too-soon reminder of the unfortunate incident with the bellboy-turned-informant, punctuated with a sharp, punishing twist of Owen’s hand. 

Curt groans. “Shut up. No missions, no ‘I told you so’s.’” His imitation of Owen comes complete with a horrendous British accent. “Just touch me, god dammit.”

Owen complies.

It starts as nothing more than a hand job in a back alley before turning into a blowjob in their client’s Parisian mansion. Owen doesn’t care too much about her, some silly heiress with a host of imagined threats, but he’s thankful, at least, that Curt is on the mission with him. That Curt is still as enthusiastic as last time, even down on his knees.

Owen lets his head loll back on his shoulders. “Jesus, Curt, if I knew you could be this quiet I’d have done this sooner.”

Curt pulls off with a pop, smirking up at Owen. “There are more uses for my mouth, if you’d care to find them.”

“I leave that mission in your very - oh - capable hands.”


	2. The Hands of Gold

It starts as a hand job in Berlin, and, perhaps without either of them noticing, progresses to something more. They’re in Owen’s rented flat in Zurich; small, even homey, though Owen can count on one hand how many times he’s visited it. It’s one room paired with a wash closet, the bed in sight of the kitchen and the front door. Plants sit on both windowsills, though they’re overgrown. Some are very, very dry, but Curt has christened all of them (even the dead ones). Owen can’t tell if they’re named after suspects, clients, or famous baseball players, but he supposes it doesn’t matter. It’s raining outside, Curt is asleep in their bed, and Owen has the radio turned on to the kind of big band his father loved.

The bed is a twin, barely big enough for both of them. Curt has the sheets piled around him like a nest. He’s a blanket hog, has been for two years now. Two years that they’ve shared a bed. Owen can list how many times they’ve met in those years: thirty-seven. It’s a miracle they’ve managed to steal even that time together. Curt’s boss Cynthia had noticed. Her remarks about their new partnership are definitely true (though not in the way she probably meant them).

Owen knows he falls hard and fast, like an apple plummeting from a branch towards a soon-to-be-very-confused mathematician’s head, like a meteor entering the atmosphere. He hopes this relationship doesn’t crash and burn, but he hasn’t exactly the greatest track record. His last relationship lasted six months, and at least he could kiss Karen in public.

Surely, two years is a good sign. The fact that Curt still shares a bed with him, even after what he’s done. What Curt has seen him doing.

Curt snorts, rolls over towards Owen’s side, reaching a hand out over empty space. Owen is sat at the dining table, a book of Oscar Wilde propped in front of him. He hasn’t been reading it, too busy with his own thoughts. And Curt. Always Curt. Even though Curt looks horribly unattractive when he sleeps, with his mouth wide open and his hair mussed.

His eyes flutter open. They’re a deceptive hazel, the kind that makes one think they are only brown. “Hey,” Curt says. His voice is rough. “What time is it?”

“Midnight.” Owen quirks a lip. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Curt beckons him closer and Owen obeys, bringing his book with him. Curt wrinkles his nose at it. “Gross. Poetry.”

Owen rolls his eyes. “It’s good poetry. I wouldn’t expect a cretin like you to understand.” He smiles to soften the blow.

Curt scoffs, pulling the book away. He glances at the page, looks at Owen. “Jeez, this thing is long.” He puts on his most official-sounding voice and begins to read: “‘I walked, with other souls in pain / within another ring, and was wondering if the man had done / a great or little thing / when a voice behind me whispered low / ‘that fellow’s got to swing.’’”

He eyes Owen, waggling his eyebrows. “What kind of poem is this?” Owen passively shrugs, though he’s read it many times. Curt continues on, losing the accent: “‘Dear Christ! the very prison walls / suddenly seemed to reel / and the sky above my head became / like a casque of scorching steel; / and though I was a soul in pain / my pain I could not feel.’”

Owen takes the book gently from Curt and reads the next verse. He knows it well. “‘I only knew what hunted thought / quickened his step, and why / he looked upon the garish day / with such a wistful eye; / the man had killed the thing he loved / and so he had to die.’”

Curt tries to examine the back cover. “Who wrote this?”

“Oscar Wilde.” Curt’s look is blank. “You’ve never heard of Oscar Wilde?”

“I grew up in Missouri,” Curt says, as if that explains everything. (Perhaps it does).

"But as a gay man, you’ve never heard of him?” Owen asks, befuddled. Oscar Wilde, in his mind, has practically been lionized. Why, hadn’t he and Curt gone to a gay bar on their 29th meeting (Harlem) to find only a dramatic, tearful reading of _the Picture of Dorian Gray_? (“Every impulse that we strive to strangle broods in the mind and poisons us”). Hadn’t Curt gotten so drunk he’d vomited on the street? (Ah, that might explain it).

“He’s queer?” Suddenly Curt is much more interested.

“Yes, he was.” Owen is more solemn. “He wrote “Reading Gaol” from prison. Where he was sentenced for _gross indecency_.”

He says it delicately, but Curt picks up on his tone. Something shutters behind his eyes. He pulls Owen into his arms. Owen settles back, his body fitting into Curt’s as easily as a magazine fits into the right gun. Curt leans his cheek against Owen’s, not minding the stubble. They sit quietly, listening to the rain, each caught in their own worlds.

Curt is Owen’s world. And Owen, who usually reads him so easily, can’t catch what he’s thinking.

“If it came down to it,” Curt says, finally. “I would give this all up. For you.” He gestures not only around their soapbox apartment but at the whole world.

“What? Being a spy?” Curt nods. Owen says, “but Curt you love - ”

“Doesn’t matter,” Curt says. His hands tighten on Owen’s shoulders. “Fuck spying. Fuck _Eisenhower_. I love you,” he continues earnestly. “More than spying. If they find out about us, I don’t care. The government can fire me. Cynthia would probably be happy about it.” Owen smiles gently at the joke, but Curt doesn’t break their gaze. “All I want is you,” he finishes, more quietly.

Owen blinks. “I love you too.”

It’s not the first time they’ve said it, but it is the first time it really, really means something. No one’s life is on the line (literally, at the moment), no adrenaline is running high. Curt grins, leans down to kiss Owen. It’s sweet and slow. Owen reaches up into it, deepening it. He pushes Curt onto his back. He is slow, leisurely, and they make love into the dawn.

It takes Owen longer than Curt to fall asleep (as usual). He keeps himself up, dark thoughts haunting his mind. He had read “The Ballad of Reading Gaol” as a teenager. It struck a chord within him, more so now than ever. He finally had something to lose.

_For each man kills the things he loves,_

_Yet each man does not die._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The main and chapter titles come from "Reading Gaol," as does most of the inspiration. All the credit for the poem goes to Oscar Wilde. Thanks for reading!


End file.
